Triumvirate, Take Cover
by zulu-ottawa
Summary: "She begins to mark days by ritual". After an apocalypse of sorts, a trio flee London for the coast.


**Triumvirate, Take Cover  
**

It's been twelve solid days since they fled. Stood to the sea, forty-eight tides marking the time passed; holed up in a tiny cottage with paraffin lamps that make her feel like she's in a wartime blitz. There are fires, up on the hills, warning signals; Beth thinks they could be for congregations – Dimitri doesn't have heart to tell her otherwise.

They lose Harry, somewhere in the intervening hours, trapped in Whitehall with the very men he hates; Ruth, ever the heart, goes out to the streets in a vain attempt at _help _and doesn't come back. They form an exodus from London, without reason to stay; looting a car not siphoned of petrol and mapping the coast, dodging the cities. She remembers Dimitri's grim-set face, the clench of his hands on the steering wheel; Tariq sat in the back, unnaturally still, twisting the hem of his shirt over and over. Eyes wide and dark, rimmed by exhaustion; watching hers, and looking away quickly. No-one thinks to turn on the radio nor to speak, for fear of shattering things further.

Once they nearly run the tip of southern England, and have left the engine ragged, Dimitri stops the car. Reluctantly, slowing at the road's edge and having Beth have to turn the ignition off for him. A town sloping the cliffs to the sea, barely hanging on its edge. None of them know the name, not that it matters, now.

* * *

The find a house, vacant, crumbling. Open windows, some smashed; but there are tins of food, and matches. Beth thinks that Dimitri might joke that it's like survival training all over again, but his face is without expression, hands burrowed into the sleeves of his sweater, head down. He leans against the wall, too tall for the door-frame, and watches Tariq sort through cupboards.

Tariq gives a short laugh as he finds an ancient bottle of whiskey tucked away. He sets it on the counter with a smile. "One of us might need this," he says.

Beth grabs it and pushes out the door, the smell of paint peeling catching in her throat. She wades through the grass to the cliff face, boldly steepled rock and an unbidden tide.

"Remember how we said we'd get used to this?" It's the first time Dimitri has spoken for hours, and his voice is a shock against the wind.

Beth snorts, but she remembers the roof terrace; a cigarette and whiskey from a water bottle. "This is another level. We got used to _that_. _This_ is an entire rebuild."

"We'll manage," Dimitri chides her negativity softly. His voice is hollow, like he has yet to get used to the idea, but is nevertheless undeterred.

"I hate being without purpose." She takes a swig of alcohol, until Dimitri disengages the bottle from her hands. She watches him fling it to the sea, smashing against a distant rock.

"It won't help you," he tells her, taking in her affronted expression. He doesn't mean his voice to be harsh, and he falters, shoulders sagging with defeat. "It was reminding me of Harry, anyway." He shifts, unsure of how much to say, how much silence to fill; whether he should pretend not notice how still she has become, or comfort her. Physical contact comes at a price, now; its meaning seems elevated when there is only three of you and too much heaviness in words. Touch becomes a currency in its own right, an exchange of thought without the expenditure of breath.

"Do you think Ruth found anyone?" she asks softly, meeting his gaze.

Dimitri debates the truth, biting his lip. "No," he finally says, watching Beth stoically nod. "No, I don't think she did."

Slowly, she leans her head on his shoulder. Her eyes are sorry, but there are no tears.

* * *

She doesn't ask when Dimitri walks the length of the beach at every dusk. Like it is some penance; his shoulders hunched, staring up at the signal fires glowing on the cliffs in asking. The sky darkens and each time he returns in silhouette, entering the house with the smell of sea-spray in his hair, an edge of woodsmoke as he moves past them wordlessly.

Tariq tells her he's found the old ruin of a church, only standing arches and rubble. They both know what he is saying in his simple description, what that age (namesake, history) would mean to knowledgeable eyes, or who would see the beauty in it. Beth cannot imagine him crying; the lamplight supplies sufficient enough shadow to obscure it if he does.

She begins to mark days by ritual. Dimitri, each time returning with a small collection of flotsam; it piles on a windowsill, set out in delicate formation as proof of life. Tariq, regularly visiting the church, staring at its crumbled arches for so long that his eyes no longer focus. Each simple and elegant, but driven; they know what it will mean when they falter.

In time, Dimitri jokes again, and Tariq laughs; in time, there becomes a normality to rebuild. In time, the signal fires blow out.

Fifteen days in, Tariq tunes an old radio, and they smile when it crackles to life; it is consoling to hear someone outside their trio. Beth imagines relief in the announcer's voice, too, at finally being welcome.  
**  
end.**


End file.
